I went busking Saturday evening, for the first time in ages. (Friday was rainy, after all, so I never got the chance to go.) But Saturday. Yes.
Within five minutes of sitting down and setting up, the kitchen at Ravintola Tori had already sent me a bowl of strawberries and whipped cream. They're so good to me! While eating the delicious dish, I wrote out a story for one of the boys from the band Foals. I have decided to write a story about each band member, all completely fictional, and then I will mail the bite-size bits to the fellas. I started with a story about Walter, pouring ketchup onto a plate. (That was a given prompt, by the way.)
Foals & friend with joke respiratory masks, OxfordThen nothing for a while. An American author whom I met while hanging out with Lilu came and sat down next to me. He used to work for the New York Times and the Financial Times, so this guy is a pretty experienced writer, I’d say. I had him read the Foals story for Walter, and another one I had written. He liked both. He’s writing a book about the Winter War, and had me read a chapter and – believe it or not – it was fucking hilarious. It was well written, visual, and there were lovely bits of comic relief. That’s the kind of thing I need in a historical account of war. He’ll be finishing the book this week.
Across the terrace, but still within earshot, a man called out to me. He was with a gang of folks, all pretty tough-looking. The woman looked like Posh Spice and the men looked like badass thugs. This guy (whose muscles were like glistening mounds of meat on his arms, decorated with tattoos) caught my attention. He asked me what I was doing. I started messing with the guy, and being a bit of a prick, actually. He asked me to come to his table so he could give me a topic for a poem.
“Nope,” I said. “This is my office, so you come to me.” (I’m such an asshole, but it’s a good thing I gave the guy a little trouble, I think.)
He said he’d give me a good tip if I came over there and, necessity overcoming pride, I succumbed. He tipped me very well, basically the standard awesome tip. (Being so vague is really frustrating.)
The topic was awesome; he has a daughter in Stockholm whom he rarely sees and he just wanted me to write a poem for her telling her how much he loves and misses her. Really touching, in fact. I wrote the poem, with a few distractions on the way. He became impatient.
When it was done, I delivered it to his table. He made me sit next to him while he read it, and then when he had, he hugged me. He said it was perfect. He was really thankful. I went back to my post and began to ponder about what had just happened. I judged him and gave him a hard time, and he gave me one of the most heartfelt topics for a poem. I was exhibiting necklaces made by Nina Ristimäki (my cousin’s wife), and decided that I could give him one for free, as another present to his daughter.
I called him over and said, “You know, I just think it was so sweet that you got that poem for your daughter. Take a necklace for her as well.”
He was clearly taken aback. He sat down next to me and told me that he would buy the necklace. I said, “No, no, no…please accept it as a present.”
He said he would accept the free necklace, but that he wanted to give me some money anyway. He was so amazed at my offer – which was, honestly, just a simple act of kindness. He pulled out a bill that, erm, shit. How do I put this into perspective? This one bill was worth more than I have ever made in one day of busking. That, on top of his initial tip, is more than twice what I usually make in a day. I refused the generosity and said that he cannot possibly consider giving me so much money. I told him I was happy to give him the necklace for free, etc, etc. He insisted.
I was blown away. What the fuck just happened? I decided to write the guy another poem to show my gratitude. When I delivered it, he handed me two more of those shockingly valuable bills. I refused once again and told him I cannot accept his money when I did nothing to deserve it. I put the money under his drink glass and ran back to my post. He walked up to me, dropped the two flaps of paper into my purse and told me he would be back in two weeks.
At one point in conversation, he offered me 2,000 euros to write a movie script. I giggled it off. He wanted me to write him a book. I think I might.
A friend at the restaurant (reacting to my gaping mouth) asked what happened. I told him, and he said he thinks the man is the owner of a hockey team here in Finland, or at least used to be. At home, my cousin’s wife did some investigating and turns out the customer that I had initially slagged off is some Finnish millionaire, worth hundreds of millions of euros. Talk about luck.
Can you imagine being so rich that you can just tip a busker with 50-euro bills (PLURAL)? I'm not that rich, but I'm glad I met a guy who is.
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